


the world's at large (so why should i remain?)

by hollow_city



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dick Grayson, Depression, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_city/pseuds/hollow_city
Summary: it takes him a moment, but what ends up coming out is, "i need help."[or, tim has been suffering for a long time, and he's finally going to say something about it.]





	the world's at large (so why should i remain?)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a vent fic. full stop. i just needed to write this. but also i think tim deserves some attention, so it all worked out. (title's from the world at large by modest mouse.)

Tim is alone all the time. 

He doesn't have an explanation, not one that he can settle on, but he assumes it has to do with him. Maybe he pushed everybody away, or he's naturally off-putting. Maybe he's that unlikable, that annoying. He can believe that. 

He can list the number of people who have stuck around on one hand. Two people.

Bruce, Jason, Damian, Steph, Cass, Kon, Bart, all gone. Sure they're all alive--at least, now they are--but that doesn't mean any of them enjoy his presence. But that's okay, Tim's used to it. 

But just because he's used to it doesn't mean he can take it forever. Doesn't mean he can handle being so alone all of the time with nothing but his bruises and his thoughts. 

Every once in a while he thinks maybe he shouldn't go out as Red Robin anymore, or at least that he should take a break, but then all he can hear is the ringing in his ears and the deafening silence in his empty apartment, and he can't. He has to go out, has to distract himself with the never-ending burn in his muscles and the sting of split knuckles and the crunch of noses breaking under his fist. 

Deep down, he knows that's not healthy, but there's nobody around to force him to acknowledge that. He pushes it down, down, down, until he can pretend to forget. 

He's not even sure when this feeling started.

Maybe it started when he was younger, when he spent weeks on end cooped up in a giant house, all alone, with no working heating system and his swirling thoughts. Maybe it started when he put on the mask and dealt with Bruce's callousness. Maybe it was when Bruce would call him  _Jason_ , but then remember that he was only  _Tim_ , and treat him like the dirt under his boots once again. Maybe it was when Jason came back and reminded Tim again and again and again that he is nothing but the replacement, the placeholder, the discount version of the original. 

Maybe it was when Damian showed up and Bruce _died_ and Dick all but fired Tim. Maybe it was when nobody would believe him no matter how adamant he was about Bruce being alive.

He's not being fair, he thinks as he slams his fist into the cheek of a man. 

It's been a slow night, and the only distractions he's been able to find were two muggings, a drug deal, and now a few thugs robbing a convenience store. 

It's not enough, and the empty feeling in his chest is growing and growing until he can barely breathe. His throat feels tight and his eyes burn and he doesn't even know  _why_. He just wants to know  _why_. 

As the last guy goes down, Tim considers calling it quits, considers going back to his apartment for the night. He's not stupid; he knows he shouldn't be staring down guns when he's like this. 

But then the image of his cold, empty apartment swims through his mind, and he shakes his head. He can't go back yet. 

He pulls his grappling gun and then he's flying through the air, towards the rooftops. He keeps going and going until he can see the top of every building, every alley he should be protecting, everything. He's on top of the Wayne Enterprises building, and he can see everything.

But he doesn't feel better. He feels worse, he thinks. 

It's a feeling deep in his stomach, a feeling that something is wrong. It's a pit of nothingness. He doesn't know what to do. 

He stands on the edge of the building, and he can't hold on anymore. His grapple gun slips from his fingers and starts falling. He reaches out for it, his breath hitching, but he can't get there fast enough, and it continues its freefall toward the ground. 

Tim stares down as it falls, his mind blank and his fingers clenching around nothing. It takes him a moment to realize where he is, what he's doing, what he's just done. 

It's okay, he'll just take the stairs back down. 

But not yet. 

He sits down heavily on the edge of the building, his legs swinging over the edge. He can feel the chill of the metal through the thinner parts of his suit and the biting wind against his face, but he doesn't mind. 

It isn't until he's looking straight down that he realizes how he's been leaning forward. Leaning over the edge. 

He hadn't even realized. 

Tim immediately scrambles back, his chest heaving and his fingers frantically searching for purchase on the flat metal roof. 

He hadn't meant to, he really hadn't. He just came up here to clear his mind, to calm himself down, to find someplace other than his apartment to be. 

Slowly, his breathing steadies, and he pushes himself even further from the edge. His mind races as his eyes flick around, and he knows now. He hadn't meant to, but he wanted to. He  _really_ wanted to.

His breath hitches again and he reaches up to tear his mask off, barely twitching when the skin around his eyes burns. If he was anywhere else, he never would've taken it off. But, at the top of the tallest building in the whole city, nobody can see him fall apart. 

Tim takes a deep breath, looks back to the edge, and reaches for his comm. His fingers twitch and he almost doesn't turn it on, but he just can't do this anymore. He can't. He's tried, he really has, to do this, but he doesn't want to anymore. 

He doesn't know if he wants to be  _alive_ anymore, and that sends a lance a fear through his chest. How could he have let it get that bad without even noticing?

"Oracle?" he calls out, clearing his throat to dislodge the lump that resides within. 

"What can I do for you?" she answers instantaneously, but she sounds distracted. Tim doesn't mind. 

"Is anyone around? I-I mean, is everyone busy?" He wants to kick himself for stuttering because he never stutters, but he's fairly certain he'd fall straight off the roof if he kicked himself right now. 

Babs tells him to hold on and the comm closes. Tim's sure she's just opening others to ask around, and he appreciates it, but he still feels the silence deep in his chest, and he hates himself for it. This is what he wanted. What's wrong with him?

The comm crackles to life. "Batman and Robin are preoccupied, but Nightwing is available. What's your location?"

Tim lets out a slow breath. He tells her and pretends not to hear the tiny, confused sound she makes in the back of her throat. But she doesn't ask, and lets him know Dick will be right there. 

Dick will be right there. So Tim has nothing to worry about. Of course. 

The few minutes feels like hours. Hours of wondering what the hell is wrong with him, where he went wrong, maybe he's been drugged, he should probably get back to the Cave and get his blood tested. But he doesn't have his grapple gun and he doesn't have his wings anymore and he's  _stuck_ and he can barely  _breathe._

"Red?" 

Tim stiffens and grips his knees until his knuckles ache. He forces himself to breathe and lowers his head toward his knees. 

"Hey," he chokes out, taking in a deep breath. 

"What's going on?" Dick asks, and Tim's eyes prickle at the gentle, concerned tone of voice. 

God, what is  _wrong_ with him?

"I..." Tim starts, but he can't continue. What is he supposed to say? 

_Sorry to bother you, I was just concerned because suddenly I want to throw myself off of a very tall building._

He can't just say that. 

But it's true. 

It takes him a moment, but what ends up coming out is, "I need help."

Dick moves forward and crouches beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

"Are you hurt? Did something happen?" he asks immediately, leaning forward and around Tim to try and see for himself. 

Tim's not injured, not really, but he still  _hurts_. It takes another moment of forcing himself to breathe through the panic before he can look up at his brother. He knows he looks like a mess; red eyes, pale face, dark bags under his eyes. 

"I'm so tired," he whispers. "I can't--I'm sorry."

Dick's face crumbles and he drops from his crouch to sit beside Tim. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against his side. It's still cold and they're still up high enough that the winds are fairly powerful, but Tim feels safer. 

"What's going on, Timmy?" he asks quietly. 

Tim still isn't sure what's going on, so for once in his life, he says what he feels. 

"I don't think I can do this anymore," he says, plowing on even when his voice cracks. "I-I almost jumped, before I asked O for help."

Every muscle in Dick's body tightens and he makes a wounded sound. He turns to Tim and wraps him up in a tight hug. He shifts until Tim is in his lap, and on any other occasion, Tim would be embarrassed.

"I'm glad you said something, then," he says against Tim's shoulder, his voice hoarse. "How long have you felt like that?"

Tim has never really put a number on it before, so he says, "a long time, probably."

Dick takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay." He pauses for a few moments, opting to simply hold his baby brother. Finally, he speaks again. "What can I do?"

"I don't know," Tim replies. He never thought that far. 

Dick presses his face further into Tim's shoulder.

"Okay. That's okay. We'll figure it out, Timmy. We'll figure it out."

Tim's not so sure, but for the moment, he doesn't think about it. He rests his head on top of his brother's, relaxes against his arms, and he doesn't think about it. 

For now, he doesn't think about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm tired. so tired. i haven't slept more than three hours a night in like... two weeks? oh well. maybe i’ll sleep and write something fluffy next time.


End file.
